The decision was made: she would accept the Duke.
She pulled the rug tighter around her shoulders. Why, then, did doubt still flutter within her chest like a trapped bird?
A LITTLE BEFORE the dinner hour—as Darby arranged a small table for Helen’s meal—a soft knock sounded on the door.
“Who is it?” Helen called from the chaise longue.
“Lily, my lady.”
Helen met Darby’s eyes. Lord Carlston’s spy. She had expected some kind of communication from his lordship, and Lily was the obvious conduit. Yet, now that it was here, she was not sure what she wanted. An explanation? An apology? Or maybe some kind of absolution for the sin of wanting a normal life. Except that she was not a Papist, and surely it was not a sin to want safety and protection.
“Come,” Helen said. She swung her feet to the floor and faced Lily’s arrival. Darby came to stand behind the chaise, a reassuring presence. “Close the door,” Helen said as Lily curtsied.
With their privacy secure, the maid ventured further into the room. Her watchful eyes flicked from Helen to Darby, then back again. “I have a message from his lordship, my lady.” She pulled a letter from her apron pocket and delivered it into Helen’s hand. “He has asked me to return with an answer.”
The packet was thin. Two sheets at most. “I will call you if I need you.”
Lily bobbed another curtsy and turned to leave. Helen pressed her fingertips upon the wax seal.
“My lady?” Helen looked up. Lily had paused at the door. “I wanted to tell you that I have still not found any sign of a Deceiver within the household.”
Helen smiled. “Thank you, Lily.”
With a nod, the maid turned the handle and, with a quick look right and left along the hall, departed, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
“Check it,” Helen said.
Darby opened the door a crack, nodded, and closed it again. “Do we not trust her, then?”
“I don’t know,” Helen said. “I don’t know who we can trust now.”
Darby eyed the letter. “Shall I leave you to read?” Helen nodded. “Then I’ll just be in the dressing room, my lady.”
Finally alone, Helen slid her fingertip beneath the seal and worked it free. With a deep breath, she unfolded the pages, smoothed the creases from them, and began to read.
St. James’s Square. 21 May 1812
Lady Helen,
It was with great relief that I received Lily’s communication that you have fully recovered after the events of 18 May. It is those events that I now wish to clarify and, I hope, bring some understanding to you about my actions.
Your surmise was correct that Mr. Benchley had proposed that he and I transfer the darkness within our souls into your own. I swear, I did not know that he had used your mother in that way so many years ago. Naturally, I refused his proposal. It was a heinous suggestion, but one that I knew would not readily leave his mind. I therefore invited Mr. Benchley to Newgate Street in order to demonstrate to him your extraordinary abilities—particularly with your mother’s miniature—and your importance to our cause. It was, I believed, the only way to stop him from thoughts of transferring his darkness to you, and thus stop him from continuing to be a threat to your well-being.
Helen shook her head. She did not believe anything would stop Mr. Benchley. But at least his lordship had refused.
Of course, we both know the course of events from when you entered the Newgate Street room. I have only ever read one mention of a Colligat in my studies, and so I did not readily recognize your mother’s portrait as that ancient and terrible creation, even when its effects became apparent on Jeremiah. I condemn myself for such ignorance.
Your Colligat is one component in a three-part alchemical abomination called a Trinitas that can render all Reclaimers dead. The danger of such a creation is obvious, but at least we can be assured that the Vis—the power source of a Trinitas—is currently within safe Reclaimer hold and cannot be replicated, unlike your Colligat or the third component, another alchemical device called a Ligatus. Thus the threat of your Colligat is great, but it is not immediately lethal to our kind. I admit that the reaction of Mr. Benchley and myself to the discovery of what you held was, perhaps, overly strong and poorly managed. I hope, however, you now find it understandable.
Helen did understand. She held something that frightened a man as brave as his lordship.
I am painfully aware of the other use of your Colligat. You now have a real choice of destiny. I cannot force you to join us and never sought to do so. Standing against the Deceivers is something that must be done from the heart. It demands a sense of duty and responsibility, a belief in the cause that will carry the Reclaimer through the danger and darkness of our calling. As you are aware, I feel certain that you are here as a sign of the coming of a Grand Deceiver, and also as that creature’s nemesis. I know that you also saw the disturbing development of Deceivers working together in the crowd outside the prison. That development is, I believe, another sign that some creature strong enough to pull them together has appeared in our world. They were, undoubtedly, hunting your Colligat, and I fear there will be another attempt to obtain it.
Unnerved, Helen looked over her shoulder. She was, of course, alone. Yet his lordship was right: the Deceivers would want the Colligat. She could still feel the brutality within the demimonde Deceiver’s grip around her throat and hear the creature’s soft words: He is coming for you. Her fingers found the silk drawstring around her neck. She gave a small tug, feeling the weight of the portrait in its bag. To have it upon her person was the only assurance of keeping it safe until her ball. Until she used it to escape all this horror.
I trust that your mother made you aware of the dangers of using the Colligat to strip yourself of your destiny: what you may lose of yourself along with your abilities. It is a risk-laden venture even during the strong earth energies of a full moon. Your mother, I am sure, had your best interests at heart, but you are no longer a child. Nor are you beholden to a memory. I have learned that lesson myself from hard experience.
I ask you to join us and to give the Colligat into my care so that I may properly destroy it. You once said to me that all I offer you is danger and threat. That is true. However, I also offer you extraordinary importance and purpose. You and I have been called into the service of mankind, and I can conceive of no greater honor. I hope that you will answer that call, Lady Helen. You can be assured I will stand beside you as your mentor, and that ranged behind us will be the brave men and women of the Dark Days Club. Together I believe that we can be a formidable force against a Grand Deceiver, the madness of Mr. Benchley, or whatever may threaten the souls and lives of the British people.
I do not believe easily, Lady Helen. You and I share a philosophical bent and, in particular, a respect for the evidence of our eyes. I have watched you discover your abilities and with them the knowledge of our hidden world. There is one other thing that I now firmly believe. You have far more courage than you think you do.
William Standfield
Helen sat still, her throat aching from the faith in his final words. She touched the scrawl of his name. William. He had signed it William.
Slowly, she stood, feeling as if every joint in her body had stiffened into misery. She walked across to the fire that burned in the grate. William Standfield, the Earl of Carlston, was wrong: she was not courageous at all. She leaned over and held the letter above the glowing coals, the heat stinging her fingertips. It was time to be done with his world. To be safe. The sting sharpened into a burn, the paper sending up a curl of preparatory smoke.
No.
She snatched back the letter and pressed the singed edges between her fingers. She could not destroy his words. Not yet.
You have far more courage than you think you do.
She unlocked her writing desk and reached for The
Magus. It had been his gift, after all. On the shelf above, her father’s face looked out fearlessly from its gold frame. Yet courage had not been enough for him. Nor for her mother. Even love had not been enough. She pulled the leather-bound book from the shelf, slid the folded letter between its pages, and pushed it back into place.
With the hatch safely locked again, and sufficient distance between her and the writing desk, Helen called Darby back into the room.
“Find Lily,” she said.
Darby’s curious eyes rested for a moment on Helen’s empty hands, but she said nothing. With a curtsy, she left in search of the maidservant.
Helen lowered herself onto the chaise longue, hands clasped in her lap. She looked up at the knock on the door.
“Come.”
Darby entered first followed by Lily. They both curtsied.
“Shall I stay, my lady?” Darby asked.
“Yes.” Helen could not keep the brittle tone from her voice. She saw Darby note it and move to stand behind the chaise again.
Lily observed them with shrewd eyes, large square hands folded at the front of her apron. A phlegmatic woman, Helen thought. She wished she had such stoic calm.
“You wanted to see me, my lady?” Lily finally prompted.
Helen met her expectant gaze. “You may tell Lord Carlston that there will be no answer.”
Twenty-Six
Saturday, 23 May 1812
SATURDAY MORNING BROUGHT Dr. Roberts on his final consultation. He drew back from his inspection of Helen’s head with a pleased, if slightly perplexed, smile.
“I see no reason why you cannot resume normal activities, including your ball,” he said, glancing at Aunt. “But do so gently, Lady Helen, and keep in mind that you have been very lucky.”
With a supplementary draught prescribed and a final bow, the doctor departed, with his apprentice trailing stolidly behind.
“Well, then,” Aunt said, rising from the chaise longue, “we are back to normal. I shall expect you to join me in the drawing room in half an hour.” She took in Helen’s high-collared muslin morning gown and wrinkled her nose. “But first, dear, do change into your green velvet. You are still a little too peaky to wear white so close to your skin. You need some color to enliven your complexion.”
Although Helen felt that her complexion had quite enough liveliness in it for a morning spent sewing beside her aunt, she obediently returned to her dressing room to make the change.
“The neckline will be too low for the miniature, my lady,” Darby whispered, holding up the little silk bag against the gown’s bright velvet bodice. “You will need to tie it around your waist.”
The best method of doing so took some low-voiced discussion, but finally the drawstring was threaded through the lowest eyelet of Helen’s stays and the bag secured. Dutifully garbed in the ensemble, her workbag ready, Helen opened her door to find Philip outside it, hands clasped behind his back, with an air of having stood there for quite some time.
“Why are you outside my door, Philip?” she asked. “Surely you are needed downstairs for the ball preparations.”
He cleared his throat, a flush spreading up from under his crisp white stock. “Lord Pennworth has ordered that a footman always be outside your room or any room you are in, my lady.”
Helen felt heat rise to her own cheeks. But unlike the young man before her, it was not from embarrassment. It was from fury. Her uncle had set guards upon her as if she were a criminal. “I see,” she said crisply.
“I am sorry, my lady,” Philip murmured.
Helen gave a short nod of acknowledgment, but did not trust herself to say more. He followed her downstairs to the drawing room, no doubt taking up a position outside once he had closed the doors.
Aunt was not seated alone on the yellow silk sofa. At the opposite end, Andrew sat reading The Morning Post, his legs crossed, one booted foot jiggling. He looked up from the spread of paper. “How are you feeling today?”
“Very well,” Helen managed. She stalked across the room to an armchair. “Aunt, did you know that I am under guard?”
Aunt opened her mouth to answer, but Andrew cut in. “You can hardly be surprised, Helen.”
She glared at him. “You agree that I should be watched?”
“I think lately you have forgotten you are a grown woman,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically hard. “If you are not careful, you’ll lose Selburn to a chit who has some sense of propriety.”
“Andrew, do keep in mind that your sister has just risen from her sickbed,” Aunt said over her tambour frame. She turned her attention to Helen. “Sit down, dear. This footman business is your uncle’s will, and you must abide by it.”
Helen sat and opened her workbag to give her hands something to do other than clench into fists. She pulled out a length of linen destined to be hemmed into a cravat. For her brother. She sent a malevolent look in his direction and stuffed it back into the bag.
“Is there some poor work?” she asked.
Aunt nodded to the basket beside the hearth. “There are some sheets and infant gowns that need hemming.”
Helen was about to rise when the doorbell rang. “Who is that?”
Even as she said it, the answer came to her in a rush of panicked certainty: it was the Duke. He had come to offer. She had not expected it to be done so quickly. She’d not had enough time to become accustomed to the idea or to settle into her decision with any sense of ease. She looked wildly at her aunt—It is too soon—but Aunt merely smiled and nodded encouragingly as she pushed aside her tambour frame.
“A visitor at this hour?” Andrew complained. He folded the paper, placing it on the small table by his elbow.
At the soft knock, they all rose to their feet. The doors opened to admit Barnett, who announced with some ceremony, “His Grace, the Duke of Selburn.”
The butler stepped to one side and bowed as Selburn entered. Always a particular dresser, the Duke had outdone himself that morning with a rich brown tailcoat and olive striped waistcoat of fine silk. His gaze swept the room and settled on Helen, the warmth in his eyes dissolving the embarrassment that had frozen her into unmoving discourtesy. She felt the room swirl and realized she was holding her breath. Drawing in a gulp of air, she sank into a belated curtsy.
“Devil take it, Selburn, this is a bit early for you, ain’t it?” Andrew said, rising from his own bow. “I thought, oh—” He stopped, clearly coming to a late understanding of the situation.
“Duke, how lovely to see you this morning,” Aunt said into the awkward silence. “Pray, take a seat.”
“Thank you, Lady Pennworth.”
The Duke strode to the other armchair. Helen glanced at Andrew. He was grinning like a fool.
“It is a fine morning out,” the Duke remarked as they all sat. His eyes cut to Helen. “Good weather for riding,” he added blandly. Helen looked down at her hands. It would have been funny if she had been in any fit state to be teased.
“Quite,” Aunt said. She turned to face Andrew. “I do believe there is something urgent I must discuss with you regarding the arrangements for the ball. Would you accompany me to the ballroom for a moment or two?”
“Of course, Aunt,” Andrew said solemnly.
They all rose, the exchange of curtsies and bows done in heavy silence. Aunt led Andrew from the room, her dignified exit only slightly compromised by the stifled smile upon her face and the backward glance of triumph she sent Helen.
As the door closed behind them, Helen lowered herself into her chair again, eyes upon the carpet. What was she to say? Selburn remained standing. He did not seem to be in any hurry to break the silence.
Helen finally looked up at him, falling back upon the safety of convention. “Thank you for all the lovely posies.”
“I am glad you like them.”
“I do, very much.” Hel
en gathered her courage. “I would also like to thank you for your”—she sought the right word—“assistance on Monday morning.”
He gave a small bow. “It was my honor. I am just glad that you have recovered so well.” It seemed he, too, was taking refuge in the well-worn paths of courtesy.
“Thank you.” She wet her lips. “You must be wondering what I was doing in Newgate Street.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I presume you were there for the same reason as everyone else. To view the hanging.”
She met his eyes. There was no condemnation in them. Quite the contrary: the intensity of his expression brought a flush to her cheeks.
“Yes, the hanging,” she murmured. “Will you take a seat, Your Grace?”
He sat in the chair opposite. “Lady Helen, I think you know why I am here,” he said, grave formality once more in his voice. “I have applied to your uncle, and he has given me permission to address you.” He leaned forward, and she smelled the scent he wore, fragrant with cloves. “I would very much like you to be my wife.”
Helen looked steadily into his earnest face: it did not have the heart-stopping symmetry of another face that rose too readily to mind. Nevertheless, there was wit and kindness within its long bones and thinner features. It occurred to her how perverse it was that she should know every line and contour on the face of a man who was already married—albeit to a ghost—and yet she barely knew the face of the man she was destined to wed. All that illicit time spent with Lord Carlston, and little more than three hours strung together with the Duke. Then again, most girls accepted an offer on little more than a Season of shared dances and chaperoned meetings. Why should she be any different? All she had to do now was say one word and bring joy to her family and an end to so many struggles. Just one word.
“Why?”
Not the word she should have said.
He drew back slightly. “Do you mean, why do I wish to marry you?”